The Making of the Morning Star/Chapter 7
CHAPTER VII
OSMAN THE WAZIR
MANY things appeared to Robert to take place very rapidly. He felt delightfully at ease, although aware that his body was being jolted, the creaking of leather and the jolting made him think he was riding again, though how he could ride lying down he knew not. Then the sun smote full into his eyes, and somebody shaded them. Robert peered out between two curtains and saw the green expanse of a wide sea with a sail drifting along the horizon. A salty wind caused him to shiver violently, and, still shivering, he dropped back into the inertia.
Again he found himself studying the stars, looking for the Great Bear and recalling that Abdullah had called it jitti karatchi, the Seven Robbers. He could not make out the robbers, and told himself that this was a strange sky as well as a strange sea.
Once he lay on his elbow, looking down at the earth. It was whitish gray. Taking up some in his fingers, he put his tongue to it and found it to be salt. A strange earth. He was bathed in sweat, and a woman came and wiped his face and hands with a cool, moist cloth.
He began talking to the woman, telling her about the changed earth and the remarkable sea that was so cold and so hot. By and by he noticed that the woman was weeping and that she was the Demoiselle d'Ibelin. Henceforth events happened less swiftly and Robert grew irritable with pain, but more often he felt the girl's touch and drank things from her hand.
“Where is that rogue, Abdullah?” he asked, his voice ringing clear.
“He is not here, my lord. Nay, I have not see him since the night in the mountains when he talked with the infidels, and— But, hush, please you, Sir Robert.”
“Damoiselle,” he remarked with dignity. “I am not Sir Robert of Antioch. I am Robert the Wayfarer; and as every man's hand is against me, so is mine against every man. Where is the lout, Will?”
“The archer is chained—nay, do not miscall him, for he jumped into the gorge and saved you your life many days ago.”
“Now that is verily a lie,” Robert responded angrily, “for this is but the morrow of that night.”
With that he slept, to awaken master of his senses again.
They were in a boat—he and the maid and the priest, and a score of strange warriors. He lay upon a cloak stretched on rushes, with a woven screen over his head.
His first thought was for his sword. It was gone, and he reflected that his horse, also, was lost to him. Then he fumbled about for the chain of rubies and found it not. The mail shirt had been removed, and he was clad in loose cotton, with a light khalat wrapped over him.
When he moved, one shoulder irked him with its stiffness. Further investigation revealed a stubby beard and mustache and a growth of hair on his skull that had been shaven. After considering this he asked Father Evagrius, who sat quietly beside his couch, how long he had lain ill, and how he came to be brought alive through the Gates.
“For ten days the fever was heavy upon you, my son. The maid prayed that you would regain your wit and strength, and her prayers were heard. I could not see what befel in the mountain pass, yet meseems Abdullah did persuade the guards to send you living to the lord of this land.”
“Did we pass the border of a sea?”
“Aye, Sir Robert. A week agone I heard the wash of the waves for the last time. Since then we have been placed on camels, and yesterday within this long skiff.”
Robert thought this over. They must then have left the Caspian behind them, and by now should be near to the main cities of Khar. So Abdullah had outlined the journey to him. He asked Father Evagrius to call for Ellen, and the priest shook his head, saying that the maid was kept within the after part of the boat, guarded by Ethiopians. The Kankalis, the priest explained, had permitted her to nurse him during the height of his fever, while he was being carried in a horse litter; but now the Moslems took care to keep her apart. Of Will Bunsley he knew little, save that the archer had survived the gorge of the Sialak and his voice had been heard at times thereafter, complaining bitterly of his chains and a diet of rice and sour wine.
Unable to sit or stand, Robert was fain to be content with this. He could not see over the side wall of the boat, nor could Evagrius see anything at all, and neither of them might speak with Ellen.
So for days the knight was constrained to lie gazing at the roofed-in after-deck where the slender form of the maid of Ibelin sometimes appeared, heavily veiled. At such moments her eyes would seek him out, and she stood where he was visible until one of the guards signed for her to enter the hangings that separated her from the men.
Father Evagrius spent his time in contemplation, eating slowly when food was brought and fingering the cross that hung from a cord about his lean throat. Robert, waxing more irritable with the confinement and the odors of the boat, marveled at the grave quietude of the priest who was preparing himself to meet death at the hands of the Moslem tormentors.
There came an evening when he could stand and look out from the boat, as the Moslems were at the evening prayer.
The river proved to be broad, and thronged with other craft. Gardens, divided off by lines of flowering trees, lined the bank, and Robert observed at once two marble pillars down-stream. These rose from the dark mass of a wall, and until they drifted through the water gate he would not believe that he had judged truly the height of the wall.
Within it he saw the glimmer of lighted pavilions close to the water, and black spires rearing against sunset over domes that gleamed purple and crimson. Straight down upon their boat rowed a barge, draped in black silk and driven by a score of slaves.
On the raised platform behind the rowers a half-dozen men, turbaned and robed in many-colored silks, leaned on brocade cushions and stared down at the smaller craft and its crew.
“Ho, Moslems!” A tall man in the bow of the barge challenged them. “Who enters the water gate after nightfall?”
Robert could not understand the reply of his captors, but presently a command issued from the barge and the sailing-skiff was brought alongside, the rowers lifting their oars. The same speaker, who seemed to be overseer of the slaves, ordered the warriors to send up their prisoners and the woman of the Franks. When Robert's guards argued a mellow voice called out from the stern in liquid Arabic.
“Surety? Am I not Osman the hadji, Wazir of the Throne and master of Bokhara? I will be surety to the Shah, and that will suffice thee. Jackals—sons of jackals and sires of dissension! Yield up the Franks and seek thy pay in the appointed day and place! Am I a hireling to be affronted by slaves in the hour that Allah decreed for pleasuring?”
To a man the soldiers in the boat cast themselves on their knees and beat their foreheads against the planks. Yet Robert heard one murmur to another that the wazir had kept in his own purse the pay that had been promised them. The negroes ushered Ellen forward, through the waist of the boat, and in the deep shadow under the side of the barge she stumbled.
“Abdullah's word to you, my lord!” she whispered quickly. “Hide it!”
He heard the rustle of paper sliding over the reeds of the deck, and leaned forward.
“And what of you, demoiselle?”
“Father Evagrius hath prayed. Tend him—let no injury be done to him.”
One of the negroes thrust Robert back, and steel gleamed in the shadow. The girl was lifted to the barge, and he took advantage of the respite to search for and find a narrow roll of parchment that lay near his feet. Putting this in his girdle, he helped the patriarch out of the boat and followed, rendered dizzy by the sudden movement but finding his limbs steadier than he had thought.
“So this is the champion of the Franks,” observed one of the Moslems about Osman, “who named himself the Lion and clawed Inalzig, the bahator, to death with a score of warriors at the Gates. Shall we match the lion with a man-eating tiger?”
“Nay, 'twould take an elephant to crush his bones,” responded another lightly. “He is greater in bulk than the tallest of the Ethiopians.”
“You are both wrong, my cup companions,” put in a third. “The Frank, like the maid, is to be kept alive against the coming of the Shah.”
Osman, who had been staring at the girl, frowned at this, and a slender boy with insolent eyes ceased tuning a lute long enough to murmur:
“Allah la yebarak fili! May Allah not prosper his coming!”
“What words are these words, O Hassan?” reproved the wazir. “Am I not the slave of Muhammad, and was not he”
“A slave himself, O most generous of lords,” quoth Hassan, bending ear to lute again, “when he was my age and caught the eye of a woman.”
Somebody mouthed a gibe about the eyes of women, and the assemblage laughed. Osman struck upon a silver gong that hung by his side; and the overseer of the slaves bellowed to the rowers, who brought the barge about and headed down the river into the heart of the lighted city.
Robert, utterly unnoticed, studied Osman curiously. It was the first time he had seen a Kharesmian of the higher classes, and it was difficult to believe that this was not the Shah himself. Osman had pallid, weak muscled cheeks, surrounded by a narrow beard, and his jeweled turban would have bought a castle in Palestine. His dark lips curved like a girl's, and his fine brown eyes had the blank stare of a dreamer or a user of drugs. From the instant that the demoiselle of Ibelin was seated at his side he did not cease to pay her attention.
“Let my counsel be as earrings in thy pretty ears, O damsel. Incline to me, and I will robe thee in samite and cloth of gold, and scent thy eyebrows with attar of rose—so that the Shah himself shall fall bewildered by thy beauty.”
He seemed loath to believe that the captive did not understand his praise, but when it was clear that she knew no Arabic the courtiers launched remarks that made the knight turn away so that they could not observe his eyes. It was wiser that they should not be aware that he could follow what was said.
“To the seller of perfume,” smiled the boy with the lute, “what remains save the dust of the rose petal? How long, O treasurer, wilt thou labor to keep safe the treasure of the slave who claims to be thy master?”
Osman glanced at him warningly, yet seemed to find food for thought in the idle words. He lifted a drinking-cup of pure jade, and from the waist of the barge cymbals and drums resounded as he drank.
“Nay, Osman,” called out a stout man in purple silk who was being fanned by a Nubian slave girl. “Am I not crowned king of the hour of pleasure? What royal honors are accorded me when I lift my cup?”
“The dogs bay.”
Hassan displayed white teeth.
“And spent hags pluck thy purse away”
“Out upon thee! Pfagh—you are rank of the dunghill that bred thee. Who but I bore to our master, this excellent fellow Osman, the news of the taking of Otrar by the barbarians?”
“The tidings that sent Muhammad to the northern border,” nodded one who had something of the warrior about him. “It was three moons ago that the Manslayer took Otrar into his maw and sent the head of its governor to the Shah. Allah, he was angered!”
“And I made a song about it,” quoth Hassan.
“The imams and kadis wagged their beards and fouled the carpet of counsel with the spittle of quarrels,” nodded the wine-bibber unsteadily.
“And I made a song about that, too.”
“Yet the news was good for us because it gave the reins of Government in Bokhara to our lord, Osman.”
“O sharp-of-wit, canst thou truly see an ant-hill when the ants bite thy toes?”
“The chief of the Kankalis who was leader of the garrison could not,” put in the warrior, signing for a slave to fill his cup again. “At least he drank too much opium by mistake”
“Thy tongue wags!” whispered one of the courtiers.
“Nay, he was a fine sight in his shroud. By Allah, it came to my ears that his favorite singing-girl slew herself with a dagger”
“And that was not so fine a sight,” broke in Hassan, “because a shroud was an ill garment for so fair a wench.”
He glanced from under kohl-darkened lashes at the Nazarene maid and swept delicate fingers over the strings of his lute, singing under his breath:
“Wilt to Bokhara? Oh, fool for thy pains! To come from the desert to Bokhara's chains!”
The river became narrower and darker where high walls of palaces and mosques lined the banks, but Osman's barge kept to mid-current, and Robert noticed that the other craft got out of its way hastily and other pleasure-seekers knelt as the wazir passed. But Osman had eyes only for the Nazarene maid, and Hassan, perceiving the mood of his master, sang of love and the beauties of women in a voice that was softer than a silver flute. A brazier, burning in the prow, cast a scent of aloes and musk incense into the air, and at command of the leader of the revels, different powders were put into the wine-cups by slaves—hashish, opium and bhang. Robert, feigning exhausted sleep, heard other references to the Manslayer, to Otrar and the treasure of Muhammad Shah, as the tongues of the drinkers were loosened.
He made out that Osman was the keeper of the Shah's treasure, which was kept in Bokhara, where no Moslem band dare venture theft. And that Muhammad knew to a dinar's worth the value of the treasure. Otrar, he suspected, was the northernmost fortress of Khar, and its capture by the new foe from the mountains to the north had impelled Muhammad to collect his army and march thither some months ago.
The chief of the barbarian tribes who had entered Khar was spoken of as the Manslayer.
ON A landing-stair of carved marble a throng of Nubian slaves awaited Osman's party with sedan chairs. Link-bearers attended them, and the girl was put into a closed palanquin, Osman riding in a chair close behind. Robert, taking the arm of the blind priest, walked in the center of the company.
From the shadows of the alley ragged shapes emerged like lame crows hopping to a meal. They croaked for alms, and the slaves thrust them back with their long wands, shouting against the outcry of the beggars for a way to be opened for the wazir.
One of the ragged men stumbled against Hassan's chair, and a flood of obscenity welled from the lips of the singer. The beggar crouched, whining, and Robert saw that his cheeks were blotched, the flesh eaten away to the bone.
“A bow!” Hassan commanded one of his followers and snatched the weapon, ready strung.
The leper lifted swollen hands, and Hassan, smiling, ordered two of the slaves to hold him. Shivering, the Nubians sprang to obey. The bow twanged and the arrow shaft plunged into the creature's stomach.
The knight, who had seen many men die, was sickened, and fought down rising nausea.
“Have we come to the prison, my son?” the gentle voice of Evagrius asked.
“Nay, we are within the streets of a great city.”
“The sound of it is evil,” nodded the priest. “And the smell is foul, both of dirt and incense. So must Babylon have been ere it was cast down.”
In spite of the fact that Osman seemed anxious to take dark and unfrequented ways to his destination, Robert was amazed by the size of the walled-in dwellings, the stone towers and marble pools that were glimpsed as they passed. Loitering crowds sighted them and stared at the two Franks, spitting and clenching their hands on perceiving the dark robe of the priest. Robert thought that surely Babylon could not have been a greater place than this.
At a bronze gateway Osman's escort halted, and the master of revelry hastened to his side. The man had sobered perceptibly.
“Lord and hadji," he muttered earnestly, “do not stumble with the foot of recklessness upon the pit of misfortune. The maid was to be sent to the palace of the Shah with the other women captives. Will you dare take her within your dwelling?”
“O small-of-wit,” responded the wazir slowly, “if harm came to the Nazarene, who would face the blame?”
“You.”
“Most true. And so shall I keep her safe, under my eye, until Muhammad returns. Who else is to be trusted with a pearl such as this, beyond price?”
“It would be better,” objected the courtier, “to take under your hand the throne treasure, for safekeeping. That would buy allegiance of a host of chiefs, whereas a fair woman will”
“Please the eye of Muhammad more than countless swords.”
Osman signed for the palanquin bearing the captive girl to be taken to one of the buildings about the central garden, and gave over the knight and the priest to some guards, who led them to a postern door and up a winding stair for so great a distance that Robert knew they must be ascending a tower.
Upon a landing of the stair a narrow door was unbarred, and they were pushed into darkness. Robert bade the priest stand still while he investigated, and discovered that they were in a small, semicircular chamber furnished only with a rug and mattresses to sleep upon. An oval window, barely large enough to admit his head through, enabled him to look out over the garden, and he heard a voice like a nightingale's where lights glowed under the trees beneath the tower—
“Wilt to Bokhara? O fool for thy pains!”
Osman's tower proved to be the highest of the many minarets and cupolas of Bokhara—higher even than the emperor's palace, as Robert observed the next morning. Moreover in the open square and market-places near the tower were the tents of several thousand Kankalis—easily distinguished by their black cloaks and trappings.
Beyond the mosques and academies were the tents and picket-lines of a host of mounted warriors. Where the caravan roads led into the gates of Bokhara's wall other pavilions were pitched. Although the distance was too great for the knight to be sure of the numbers, he estimated forty thousand men under arms within his range of vision and guessed at as many more elsewhere.
Hourly long lines of camels threaded through the gates and pushed into the already crowded market-places. Passing along the alleys beneath him, he made out throngs of mullahs, followed by their disciples, jostled by swaggering Turkomans and pushed aside by the riders that were continually entering and leaving Osman's palace.
And four times a day there floated out over the humming confusion of alley and bazaar the musical call of the summoner-to-prayer.
“Allah akbar! God is great. … There is no God but God. … Pray ye! Prayer is good, and the hour of prayer is at hand!”
The gigantic concourse, the uproar of voices, the smells—that rose even to the tower—wrought upon the senses of the watcher even as Osman's music and incense had failed to do and brought home to him the power of the stronghold of Islam. It was during the first dawn-prayer, when the light was strong enough to read by, that he took out Abdullah's scroll and scanned it in the window niche where the guards in the outer corridor could not see him through the aperture in the door that served to pass in food and enable them to spy upon the prisoners. The letter began abruptly.
Salaam, yah ahmak-greeting, O fool! I have brought you to Bokhara, in spite of your folly which nearly made the Gate the end of the road.
Have you never learned that one rider can pass where four may not go abreast? Why then strive to befriend three others, and two of them weaklings? But what is done is done, and what will be, will be. I have claimed on your behalf that you are the greatest of all the Franks, and it is well that the name of Longsword has penetrated even to the borders of Khar. The Shah will desire to see you, and until his arrival you are safe, for I swore on the Koran that your disguise was needed to take you through the desert tribes.
I also swore that you had been cast out by your peers of Palestine and sought the service of Muhammad, for that also was necessary to keep you from being put into a shroud by the followers of Inalzig.
Your sword is more eloquent than your tongue; keep silence and listen, for Bokhara breeds more gossip than a dunghill vermin. Take these matters to heart, chiefly:
Osman is only lip-loyal to the Shah. The treasurer is the companion of Muhammad's mother, Turkhan khatun, who holds the allegiance of the Kankalis, who in turn are the backbone of the Kharesmian host. Osman secretly poisoned the ameer who commanded the garrison of Bokhara, and would do away with the council of the imams, who are the Moslem elders. The Shah fears him, the imams hate him. If he could lay hand on the throne treasure he would be master of Khar.
Ponder these matters and gather your strength again, for you will have need of wit and daring when I seek you. Bahator, a new path will be opened up by the next moon, and we will ride again.
Three times Robert pored through the delicate Arabic scroll writing and then thrust it into a crack between the bricks outside the window, wondering more than a little what manner of man might be Abdullah, who seemed to go freely wherever he willed and to judge any situation with a clear mind. The crusader was beholden to him for his life, and yet could not be sure Abdullah was his friend.
For days he paced the chamber, or slept heavily as they sleep who are casting off the inertia of sickness. And though he often pondered Abdullah's message, he could make little of it. He had come among men who learned to plot before they were weaned, who built mosques that outrivaled the temple of Solomon, who could fashion weapons that made the clumsy arms of the crusaders look like flails and scythes. Without a weapon in his hand and a horse between his knees, he was restless; and often he found himself thinking of the girl who had come with the pilgrims to seek the Holy Sepulcher and had been led to Bokhara. Father Evagrius talked of her after his fashion, blaming no one for her fate.
“When all is told,” the knight observed thoughtfully, “is not her state better here than on the roads of Palestine?”
“Is yours?”
“Nay, my case is different.”
“You, my lord, have achieved much against the paynims. Will you swear to me that you will strive to speak again with Ellen d'Ibelin and ransom her from this infidel king?”
Robert frowned, chin on hand.
“Nay, that will I not. What ransom would suffice him who sits on the Throne of Gold? What have I?”
“My son, in this life we serve not ourselves. Not long ago the good yeoman leaped into the pool of the gorge and saved you from drowning, and thereafter the maiden tended you when the fever ran in your veins. What will you do for them?”
Glancing from the embrasure, Robert shook his head.
“Could you see the vast city and its wall, twice the height of Jerusalem's—aye, and the array of Moslems passing in and out upon the roads, you would not talk of hope. We have been brought hither like beasts for the eyes of the emperor to scan. Nay, Evagrius, 'twere folly to deceive ourselves. If the maid and the yeoman were free, and I, and we had horses—could we ride over these walls? And, even so, could we achieve a passage through five hundred leagues of Moslem lands?”
He laughed without merriment.
“Nay, Abdullah spoke truth to Montserrat. Whosoever enters Khar returns not.”
The priest smiled.
“My blind eyes have seen more than that. The Red Sea dividing its waters, so that the Christian host passed through. Aye, and water issuing from a rock in the desert.”
Evagrius nodded gently and sank into one of his long musing spells. Robert leaned back against the door, where he could listen to the talk of the guards in the corridor, and presently both were aware of a change in the sounds that drifted up from the alleys and gardens below.
The hum of talk had died away, although it was past the hour of evening prayer for the Moslems. In the water garden of the palace the companions of the wazir were sitting about their cups, and Hassan's clear voice rose in mockery above their laughter. Somewhere a woman began wailing, and slippered feet pattered along a corridor. A horse galloped furiously along the palace wall, and presently the' hum of talk arose again in the alleys.
“What do the warriors, our warders, argue?” asked Evagrius, for the voices were louder than usual outside the door.
“They are disputing about the war. Otrar, one of the cities of Khar, fifty leagues from here, has fallen into the hands of the barbarians. There has been a battle between the host of the Shah and the barbarian chief who is called the Manslayer.”
Robert listened with rising interest.
“They say that Otrar was taken in a week, and ten thousand Moslems slain. A short siege, forsooth. Before that there was a battle in the northern mountains. One man claims that the Shah overthrew his foes; another that he lost half his warriors—a hundred thousand.”
“Who is this foe?”
“They name him now the Great Khan, which is to say Genghis Khan, and his tribe are called Mongols.”